


Cat Got Your Tongue

by Meskeet



Series: Running The Same Race All Over Again (Unrelated Mosh Pit of Cartinelli Aus) [4]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Animal Transformation, F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5120396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meskeet/pseuds/Meskeet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s only two things Peggy’s currently certain about.<br/>One, she’s in love with Angela Martinelli.<br/>Two, she’s a cat.</p><p>(Or, the one where Howard Stark turns Peggy into a cat.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cat Got Your Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to have to go back and edit some more parts later, but here is my contribution to the marvel big bang for this year. It seems like I'm not going to tire of this lovely duo anytime soon.
> 
> Thank you so much to KayQy for her lovely art! She was absolutely amazing to work with, and you should check out hte accompanying illustrations here:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/5117405

Considering the array of aptly chosen albeit semi-harsh names Peggy has called Howard Stark in his lifetime, it’s with some surprise that she realizes she’s never called him foulmouthed. In fact, she can probably count on her fingers that amount of times she’s heard him curse without being close to blackout drunk ,which is why when she hears him let loose an incredibly heartfelt  _“oh shit”_  in his lab, she goes from relaxed to combat ready in a heartbeat. 

It’s easy enough to vault over the counter, sending equipment crashing to the floor as the table Howard’s been working at sparks an ugly yellow-orange.  Peggy seizes him around the shoulders, hooks one ankle around his leg, and twists her body - he falls away from the table, and she follows, crashing on top of him as everything flares in a manner that uncomfortably reminds her of the war.

Her chest feels uncomfortably tight for a moment, breath catching and expanding in a fashion that leaves her eyes watering, and she lets out a pained gasp that turns into a higher whine and the world diffracts for a brief, startling moment.

Peggy scrambles off Howard, and she tries to stand. There’s a brief moment of confusion, muscle memory and instincts going two separate ways, and then Howard says, again, _“oh shit”_ and suddenly, it’s going to take more than two hands to count the amount of times he’s cursed in front of her, because as he towers above her and steps backwards, he’s spewing a whole litany of them.

She tries to stand, but can’t - and when she looks down, she sees fur and paws where hands and skin should be, and her senses are going haywire. Everything from the thrumming of a lab machine to Howard’s cursing seems incredibly _loud_ , so when Howard takes another step back, and the edge of his elbow catches on a book that falls to the ground with a loud bang, Peggy nearly jumps out of her skin.

She doesn’t quite manage to jump out of her skin, but she does leap about six inches into the air and lets out a startled hiss which is, to say the least, an unexpected reaction.

“Oh god,” Howard says again, and Peggy has a brief, wild moment where she isn’t sure if she should be panicked or proud that she might have actually broken Howard Stark. “Pegs, please don’t panic or shoot me or - well, anything that involves maiming me but…”

Something twitches out of the corner of her vision. The movement makes her whirl with surprisingly quick reflexes. There’s a sharp stinging pain, and it takes Peggy a moment to recognize the tail and _why does it hurt that she’s grabbing at it_. Peggy takes a hesitant step back, still moving her hands and feet in a way that shouldn’t be possible, and cranes her head to look at Howard.

“Youmightbeacat,” Howard babbles out. “Just in case you hadn’t noticed.”

There’s a moment when Peggy checks off a mental list: paws, tail, fur, the desire to _gore Howard in the throat_. The last one is a fairly typical response, but the rest of the list… As much as Peggy hates to admit it, Howard typically is correct which means -

Stark stretches out a shaking hand to her, fingers looming incredibly large in her sight. She pulls back, and can actually feel her ears press back against her head. She might be in shock. Okay, she’s definitely in shock.

The noise Howard makes when she sinks her teeth into his hand is incredibly satisfying, and could almost make this entire venture worth it -

Except she’s still a cat, and now she has the taste of Howard Stark in her mouth and nothing about this makes her even remotely happy, which is why Peggy lets out a loud hiss and springs away.

 “Damn it, Peggy!” Howard calls after her, and of _course_ this is when Jarvis shows up - she smells him before she sees him as he opens the door to the lab. It makes her uncomfortable to turn her back on Stark - but honestly, what else could to do to her that he apparently hadn’t done already? - which is why she whirls, still shaking on four paws rather than two feet and  she dashes right out the door. “Don’t let her-”

 Jarvis jumps back with a strange choking noise, his voice rising in pitch and tone as he asks, “Sir, are you experimenting on animals now?” His voice fades as she scampers by, the smell of Anna and cinnamon mingling in the air as she dashes, paws hitting the ground in a scrambling that leaves her surprised by her own speed. She tries to focus on the logistics for a moment, loses her balance, and then as the door slams open once more, runs for cover.

“That was Peggy.”

“The cat was Peggy?”

“You act like no one’s ever been turned into an animal before. Find her,” Howard orders as she whirls around the corner and skids, craning her head for hiding places. She sees a pile of boxes and gathers herself for a leap. Peggy almost loses her balance from the coordination of too-many feet as she jumps, but manages to scramble up the edge as Howard distantly continues. “I need to lock down the building so she can’t get out.”

Peggy noses along the box, lifting one flap. A clipboard slides off of the box with a clatter and as the sound of footsteps grow nearer, she manages to wedge it open just enough to slide her body through the gap.

“C’mon Peggy,” Howard grumbles, his voice almost dipping into a growl. There’s a rhythmic noise, and it takes Peggy a moment to realize it’s the sound of a tail lashing against the container. “Who’s a good-”

She narrows her eyes, peering at the band of light that shows where the flap's lifted slightly up. The Lord help him if he so dares as to finish that sentence.

“Sir,” Jarvis says, and maybe one day Howard will appreciate that Jarvis has saved not just his face, but everything else he values in regard to his women-wooing ways as well. “I can attempt to locate her using thermal imaging, but have you considered what we should do once we find her?”

A beat of silence. Although she wants to dash out and duck for cover, Peggy crouches down against the bottom of the box. Something shifts under her feet, and she’s not entirely sure she’d like to know what’s in here with her. It stinks of oil and smoke, and makes her want to sneeze. The sounds made by Howard and Jarvis begin to fade, their voices a steady, familiar hum of worry and muted outrage that Peggy tunes out with the ease of long familiarity

When she judges they’ve retreated out of sight, Peggy leaps upwards at the flap. It opens easily enough, but she misses the rim of the box and falls the rest of the way to the floor. With a yawn, she stretches and considers.

Although it would serve Howard right to languish in his own anxiety for a time - this _is_ his fault, after all – hiding among boxes was serving no purpose. Peggy hadn’t been able to stop herself from fleeing initially, but upon future reference, had to wonder if it would be better to return and let him do whatever exams he needed to do so that they could fix this, preferably before her colleagues at the SSR began to miss her and before Angie began to worry.

The thought of Angie makes her purr, just a little, and as soon as she realizes she’s doing it she stops immediately. Her tail lashes, and she bares her teeth in frustration. The unexpected movement of her tail throws the rest of her balance off, and suddenly Peggy’s frustrated, she’s tired, and she just wants to curl up and sleep because this day has been far, far too eventful and she just wants for it to be tomorrow.

She traces her own scent back to the lab - she’s never going to use this perfume again, not after smelling it this strongly - and listens intently the entire time for any sound of Stark or Jarvis. The halls are suspiciously quiet, which either means that they’ve left or are in a room chasing their own tails with worry.

The door’s just ajar, which makes it easy for Peggy to press her shoulders against the frame and open the door with a faint squeak. When Jarvis looks up at the noise, she strolls into the room and hopefully projects an air of _I meant to do that._

Stark, pouring over what are hopefully diagrams and charts of whatever caused this fiasco, freezes. One of his fingers has been covered in an inordinate amount of gauze since she saw him last, and maybe it’s petty, but Peggy hopes it hurts. Perhaps it does, because he scowls at her with the air of a toddler ready to throw a tantrum. Jarvis, on the other hand, smiles upon seeing her.

“Agent Carter,” he say genially, and there’s enough warmth in his voice that she moves towards him rather than pacing around the edge of the room like she’d previously intended to. Jarvis steps out from behind the table - he’d been pouring tea, it looks like, and she tilts her head up to get a better whiff of it.

Jarvis takes it as some sort of greeting, apparently, because before she can stop him he leans down and strokes her back. Although Peggy’s initial reflex had been to bite him, she can’t stop herself from arching her back and butting her head into his hand. He runs his hand down her back once more, and she can’t help the slight purr.

“Oh, so she likes _you_ ,” Howard says, and the sound of his voice is enough to make her ears go flat. Jarvis snatches his hand away at the movement, and Peggy takes a step back. She leaps onto the table, but doesn’t quite make it and instead starts to slide off the edge. Unfortunately, it’s smooth enough that her claws slip against the metal rather than grasp it.

Peggy hits the ground, and rather than try the table again, she eyes Jarvis’ shoulder. He’s watching Stark, so she gets a pleasant, smug feeling of satisfaction when her leap falls a little short of her intended target. His suit, however, gives her an excellent material to dig her claws into and she climbs the rest of the way there.

“Agent Carter, I must insist-” Jarvis protests a little weakly, but by that time, Peggy’s already perched comfortably on him. 

“Carter,” Stark says, and she glances at him. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She automatically tries to say yes, but what comes out is a quiet chirp. Howard doesn’t laugh, just frowns at her. “Is that a yes or is she just meowing at me?”

Peggy shifts her weight on Jarvis, using her claws to keep her in place. The man winces, and sounding incredibly uncomfortable, says, “Agent Carter, you are tearing a rather expensive suit that Anna gifted to me.”

It’s enough to make her feel moderately guilty, and she leaps from his shoulder onto the lab table. If she skids a little bit, it’s because of the slick surface and not because of her still fledgling leaping and landing skills. It makes her uncomfortable to meet Howard’s eyes as she hunkers down on the table, and so she watches Jarvis examine the slight hole she’d left in the shoulder of his suit.

“Assuming you can understand me,” Howard sounds a little uncertain, so Peggy glances at him and tries to nod. Apparently that’s enough to encourage him to begin an explanation, “It looks like the machine’s fried for now. It’s original purpose was to create a scanner that would provide an effective way to search the ocean for underwater matter and debris fields, but it looks like several components were jarred loose by an unrelated explosion in the lab yesterday and when I turned it on, it created a new pathway that-”

 _The abridged version, please,_ she wants to say, but has to settle for a cranky mew. Jarvis clears his throat when Howard pauses, and perhaps he senses that neither of them want a long, tech riddled explanation.

“Anyway, it’s going to take a few days to fix,” he says. “I’ll stay overnight, see what I can do, but it’s going to be difficult to isolate the problem that caused this, and then reverse it. Frankly, the conversion of mass is remarkable - since Jarvis was able to carry you, you can’t be holding the same amount of weight as before, but what happened to-”

Peggy bares her teeth at him and Jarvis clears his throat again. Once again, Howard pulls himself together. “Uh, let’s see. I’ll have Jarvis bring you some food and water while I work on this, and I can put you in a different room. You’re going to have to be patient which isn’t exactly your best personality trait, but Jarvis will inform the SSR about this… incident so they don’t get in the way.”

What about Angie? She’ll be worried - positively frantic, actually, after what happened the last time Peggy went off the radar. Peggy doesn't  especially want to be locked in a lab room with Howard for a few days anyway, so she lets out an irritated growl.

Howard stops talking to stare at her. “You want SSR to get in the way?” She remains silent, watching him backtrack through the conversation. “I’m flattered that you want to be in the same room as me Peggy, but-”

Another irritated growl, this one slightly louder. Peggy glances over the room, trying to remember where she left her bag earlier. Once her eyes fall on the purse, she bounces to the floor, ambling to where the object rests against a table. She tips it over with a paw, and sticks her head in, sneezing as she's met with the smell of gunpowder and perfume. Delicately, she mouths at the house key.

It is heavier than she anticipated, and she withdraws her head. She hooks a paw into the bag and, after a few seconds, manages to pull it out.

“You want to go home?” Howard asks incredulously. “Martinelli probably doesn’t know anything about cats.”

Well, Peggy isn't a cat - admittedly, she is physically a cat - so that won’t be a problem if Angie happens to be unaware of how to care for a cat. She swipes at the key again, admiring the way light bounces off the golden sheen. It rattles rather interestingly, and she bats at it. When it skids away across the ground, she propels herself after it, rolling over onto the back and wrestling with it until -

“Agent Carter,” it's actually rather impressive how Jarvis’ voice doesn’t shake at all. Peggy freezes immediately, dropping the key with a clatter and rolling over so that she can sit up. She meets their eyes with disdain, licks a paw until she realizes not only what she's doing, but that both Jarvis and Howard were gaping at her. Well, Howard is. Jarvis just looks vaguely horrified. "I will be happy to return you to your home once Mr. Stark has run his required tests."

Mr. Stark doesn’t look all too happy about this, but Peggy thinks that between her and Jarvis they have him outvoted. Even if she is a cat.

“I’m going to do a standard run,” Howard says the words like he expects her to know what a standard run actually means. Still, Peggy allows him to examine her. It’s not as though he could possible make things _worse_.

Perhaps she’ll put that on Stark’s gravestone: Howard Stark, always able to make things worse. It’s petty and mean, but the thought would have made her smile on any other day.  Today, however, she just hunkers down and closes her eyes. A long sigh escapes her lips.

“It shouldn’t take long,” Howard says, which means that Peggy’s probably going to spend the next five hours bored out of her mind until he’s satisfied himself.

She yawns and drops her head down. If he needs her cooperation, he’ll be sure to wake her up.

* * *

When someone picks her up, Peggy cracks open one eye. It’s Jarvis by the scent, which means she is only slightly tempted to bite him and slightly more tempted to go back to sleep.

“Agent Carter,” Jarvis says, and that makes it clear she can’t go to sleep. Peggy opens her eyes, and sees a cursed _cat carrier_ sitting on the floor.

She doesn’t bite Jarvis, but she does scratch him in her haste to get out of his arms. Peggy hits the ground, landing easily on four paws. Immediately she looks up at Jarvis to issue him a long, threatening hiss.

“Told you she wouldn’t agree,” Howard, standing at a safe distance, says.

 _Thank you, Howard_ , Peggy thinks. She meets Jarvis’ eyes. The man looks two parts flustered, one part sheepish as he presses a hopefully clean towel against his scrapes.

It’s not his best look.

She walks forward, brushing her tail against his leg in an apology. Peggy doesn’t exactly regret scratching him, but she does regret the way Howard laughs at him as Jarvis accepts a sheet of gauze.

“I finished up my tests,” Howard says. “Thought you might like to go home.”

Peggy saunters over to Howard, and leaps onto his shoulder. It’s tricky to turn around, but she manages to do so _and_ swat him in the face with her tail. Unlike Jarvis, he has suits to spare.

“Oh, _now_ you like me,” Howard grumbles.

She stays on his shoulder as they make their way to the car. They make an odd parade, she’s certain - Howard, in his finely pressed suit with a cat on his shoulder, Jarvis, nursing his scrapes and scratches.

The drive itself isn’t too bad. No one tries to put her in a cat carrier again, and Jarvis is, as he always is when not faced by men with guns, an impeccable driver. Peggy claims the front seat for herself, pressing her nose against the window so she can look at New York as it passes by and hide the fact that she’s having an existential crisis _again_ over the fact that she’s a _cat._

Peggy can’t exactly be an agent if she’s a cat. She can’t call in sick to work, can’t argue over who gets to make dinner, can’t fire a gun. If Thompson thought having a women in the SSR was quite the burden on the rest of the men, what the hell would he say about a _cat?_

She’s not aware that she’s making growling noises until a hand tentatively pats her on the head. Peggy narrows her eyes, because even if she is a cat, she’s still Margaret Carter, an SSR agent that has worked hard to be recognized as a capable and efficient operative and not someone who can be soothed by a _pat on the head_.

“Whatever happened, I think it’s reversible,” Howard says, as Jarvis thankfully pulls his hand away. “My device wasn’t altered _that_ badly, and it’s not as though I was working with any high level of radiation. Maybe you just need a kiss from your true love, Pegs. I’d be more than happy to pucker up.”

That piece of Stark idiocy isn’t even worth a reaction.

“Anyway,” Howard continues, remarkably managing to look disappointed when she doesn’t appear ready to leap into his arms. “I just need some time to adjust formulas. I’ll make sure that your Angela still has Jarvis’ contact information should she need help.”

The car slows to a stop after a few more minutes and Peggy drops away from the window. She doesn’t wait for Jarvis to get out and open the door for her, just follows him out the driver’s side door. Perhaps Howard senses her impatience, because for once he manages to exit the car without waiting for Jarvis.

She leads them up familiar steps, slightly relieved that at least this apartment, unlike the Griffin, lacks nosy neighbors who will gossip about Howard Stark’s new cat. Unfortunately, despite her impatience, there’s no way for her to ring the bell or open the door without assistance.

Jarvis scoops her up, probably managing to keep an air of absurd dignity while he does so, and Howard pulls out a familiar looking key and unlocks the door.

“Peggy? Is that you?” Angie’s voice calls, and to her own surprise, Peggy remains where she is rather than dashing towards the sounds. Howard glances back at her, and even he manages to look a little confused.

“Miss Martinelli,” Jarvis replies, and Peggy hears the way his heartrate picks up immediately. At least she’s not the only one anxious over Angie’s response. She kneads at his arm until he lets out a pained hiss and stops immediately.

When Angie appears, Peggy squirms out of Jarvis’ arms and hits the ground with a thud. Her roommate looks at her with more confusion than annoyance.

“Mr. Jarvis,” she says cordially, then narrows her eyes at Howard. “Mr. Stark.”

Seeing the way that Howard gulps and looks away makes Peggy stare at the two of them and try to remember their most recent interaction. Nothing comes to mind, and since Peggy can in no way contribute to the nonexistence conversation, she stares down the narrow hallway rather than look at any of them.

There’s a long silence, which Peggy decides to ignore until Angie finally says, “What’s this?” When Peggy looks over, she’s still staring at Howard who seems to be caught between laughing and crying, and isn’t sure which he should do first.

“It’s Peggy. Peggy’s cat, I mean. Not Peggy, but it could be if I were a mad scientist and-”

The weight of Angie’s disbelieving stare falls on Peggy. Peggy looks at her, and gives the saddest meow she can possibly muster. _It’s me,_ she wants to say. “Peggy doesn’t own a cat.

“Of course she does. She let me borrow it for experiments. I mean, to test a new strain of cat food SI’s developed. We’re branching out, you know. Not to test weapons, because that would be cruel and Peggy would definitely not approve of cat-experiments.”

Jarvis let out a slightly strangled noise, and muttered “excuse me” before making a hasty exit out the door, adding on his way out,  “Perhaps you should try the truth, sir, before Agent Carter is moved to drastic action.”

“The truth?” Angie gives Howard a steely-eyed stare that Peggy’s grateful isn’t aimed at her. “If this is some joke-”

“So,” Howard begins, like a little boy who’s just been scolded by his mother. “I may have turned Peggy into a cat. It was an accident, but-”

“You’re saying Peggy is a cat.”

“That cat, specifically,” Howard said, pointing at Peggy. Peggy keeps her eyes on Angie, and gives her a slow, lazy blink.

Her roommate takes a step towards Howard, then shakes her head. “I think I need you to start from the beginning, Mr. Stark,” she says, for all appearances seeming perfectly in control, but Peggy can see how her hands slightly tremble when she clasps them in front of her.

“Well,” Howard begins, eyeing Angie like he expects her to hit him. “It started when I miscalibrated the thermal scanner to…”

* * *

 

Once the whole _just so you know, Peggy’s a cat, I swear it wasn’t my fault_ conversation is complete, Howard and Jarvis take their leave. Angie still seems a little white, but otherwise appears to be taking things in stride.

“Well, English,” she begins, taking in what looks to be a fortifying breath. “It appears as though you’re stuck here with me until Howard gets this sorted out.”

No work, no errands to run, and Angie for company. The situation… actually doesn’t sound like an entirely bad arrangement, when Angie says it like that. Angie takes a few steps back, and when her ankles hit the couch, sinks down into the sofa. It’s then that Peggy realizes that maybe Angie isn’t taking this quite as well as she’d originally thought.

“Just give me a moment,” Angie says, pulling her feet up beside her. Peggy wonders if perhaps she shouldn’t have been so insistent on returning to their flat as Angie immediately stands and raids one of the liquor cabinets that Howard had left behind. She pours a generous amount, waves the bottle at Peggy and says, “I’d offer you some, but you’re a cat.”

Angie starts laughing as she returns to the sofa, sinking back down. She takes a large gulp of what smells like scotch, her eyes looking everywhere but at Peggy.

“Sorry,” the word makes Peggy take a few hesitant steps closer. “But right now, my flatmate’s a cat and I don’t know if she knows what’s going on and _Howard Stark_ dropped her off and I’ve always considered myself a dog person, you know? I have an audition tomorrow and my roommate’s a _cat_ with a fluffy tail and fur that’s probably going to shed all over my pants and -”

It’s hard not to take the words personally, but Peggy brushes them aside. She’s not quite listening to what Angie’s saying, more focused on the faltering rhythm of the words, and now understands how Thompson felt when Angie had started to cry in front of him. It’s probably not a stretch to say that Jarvis handled the situation a little better than Angie, but considering Peggy had taken a fair amount of time to recover from the surprise, Angie is perfectly within her rights to be a quarter of the way through the bottle of scotch within five minutes. 

“I can’t believe Howard Stark turned my flatmate into a cat,” Angie mutters sourly. “No wonder Peggy hits him.”

Tired of being talked about in the third person, Peggy takes a few running steps forward. She’s far more coordinated than she was this morning, and it’s a little relieving to land gracefully next to Angie rather than slide back down and become a heap on the ground. Angie startles, obviously surprised to see Peggy gazing back at her.

She’s still at a loss of what to do, but Angie clearly expects her to do something. After a brief hesitation, Peggy walks forward, picks her way over Angie’s leg, and curls up on her lap. When Angie appears frozen by surprise, Peggy butts her head against Angie’s palm.

Slowly, Angie relaxes. Peggy drops her head onto Angie’s thigh as her roommate begins to scratch behind her ears. The sound of her own rumbling purr takes her by surprise - it takes Angie by surprise too, because she stops moving for just a moment.

When Angie stops stroking her to reach for her scotch, Peggy flexes her claws. _You don’t want to audition with a hangover, do you?_ Peggy wishes she could say, but perhaps Angie gets the message - at the very least, she starts running her fingers through Peggy’s fur rather than taking a drink.

Mission complete, Peggy thinks she’s well within her rights when she closes her eyes and falls asleep.

* * *

Surprisingly, Peggy actually manages to sleep.  At some point, she’d ended up on the sofa rather than Angie’s lap. It’s the quiet noises of Angie in the kitchen that awakens her at last, and the smell of pan-seared chicken motivates her to stretch and jump to the ground.

The noise makes the sounds in the kitchen falter, for a just a moment, and then she hears the sound of a remarkably composed Angie say, “Peggy?”

She strolls into the kitchen, greeting Angie as best as she can - after a moment of hesitation, she settled for winding around her roommate’s ankles until a gentle nudge of Angie’s foot moves her away.

“Thought I’d make dinner,” Angie says, sounding tired but sober. “Sorry about earlier.”

Peggy tastes the air, and apparently Angie hadn’t kept with her drinking after she’d stopped demanding attention. There’s the smell of scotch clinging to the air, but it’s faint and the smell of chicken overwhelms it.

 _Apology accepted,_ Peggy says, the meow sounding a bit like a croak to her ears. Angie laughs and scratches her ears again, and maybe Peggy Carter, war hero, can be forgiven for the way she melts into her hand. When Angie withdraws, Peggy straightens up from leaning against her leg and sits.

“You’re in the way, you know,” Angie says with no little amusement.

Peggy ignores her in favor of getting distracted by her curling tail. It’s the one difference between bodies that she just hasn’t been able to work out so far.

“I don’t suppose that man of yours showed you what you looked like,” her roommate says after a bit, when the clanking of dishes halts. Peggy glances up at her, not really sure she wants to know the answer. “C’mon, English.”

It appears as though she has little choice but to follow Angie, who leads her into the nearest water closet. Angie picks her up, and Peggy can’t help the small _meep_ of protest.  “Sorry, I”ll ask next time.”

She’s set down on the sink, and Peggy stares at the mirror in curiosity. At first, she pulls back with a hiss - then she realizes it’s her reflection she’s glaring at.

Peggy-in-the-mirror looks nothing like Peggy-the-human, but at least it puts to rest her still niggling doubts that this was some elaborate hallucination on her part. She meets her own eyes with disdain and her attention is drawn yet against to her thrashing, plumed tail. _You’re not a looker,_ she expects Angie to say, but to her surprise, the other woman remains quiet.

She’s a rich, glossy brown with some lighter gold accents, her coat a fair amount longer than most of the strays she’d seen lurking around the alleyways. In contrast to the deep brown, her paws and chest are a bright white that spreads until it reaches her belly.

“You certainly don’t look like a street cat,” Angie tell her finally, and Peggy can’t blame her for wanting to fill the silence. After staring at her reflection in the mirror for a few long seconds, Peggy finally leaps back to the floor and tries to say _I’m hungry._

Angie sighs, and leads the way back to the kitchen. She sets Peggy a plate, places it on the table rather than the floor and doesn’t complain when Peggy leaps up so she can reach it. Slowly, Angie starts to speak once more, telling Peggy about her day as though it was any normal evening they spent in together rather than venturing to the city around them. The only comment out of the ordinary comes when Angie looks at her and says, “Stark recommended I set up a box for you in the bathroom.”

That comment leaves Peggy sulking out of sight after dinner, ignoring Angie’s soft calls after she disappears. Once she’s tired of raking her claws along Howard’s sofa, she heads into her own bedroom. She spends a few moments curled up in the middle of her much-too-big bed, the silence of the room only illustrating the faint sound of running water, the hum of the ceiling fan, and the faint, soft creak of Angie’s feet on the wooden floor.

It hits her that despite how close Angie is, Peggy actually manages to feel _lonely._ Her room is cool and empty, every little noise amplified to echo in the shadows. She curls tighter on her pillow, aware that once she’s normal again - _if_ Howard manages to fix this - she’s going to need to spend time picking cat hairs out of her bedding or spend money having everything cleaned.

Unable to sleep, her restlessness brings her to her feet. For a while, she contents herself by burrowing under her comforter, which is much warmer than just laying on the pillow. Still, the large space leaves her uneasy, and at last, she slips to the floor.

She paces through the ornate hallway, slinking from shadow to shadow as she winds around the chaise longue and jumps onto a bookcase. Bored, she knocks _The Power and the Glory_ to the ground, watching the way it thumps onto the carpet. With a yawn, Peggy pulls a dictionary out with a paw. It’s not enough to keep her amused for long, and at last she jumps to the floor once again, following the sound of running water.

Peggy ends up outside Angie’s door, and after a moment’s hesitation, stretches upwards to pull the handle down. The sound of running water becomes louder instantly, and although it takes a little more flexibility than she expected, she manages to open the door.

The room is lit by a single, solitary stained glass lamp and the light that peeks from Angie’s washroom. Peggy doesn’t approach, just gazes around the room and eventually decides to slink under the bed. It’ll be dark there, but close enough that she won’t feel that sense of echoing loneliness.

She’s almost asleep when the water turns off and Angie emerges from the bathroom. There’s a brief moment when Angie hesitates, then the bed creaks as she settles into place above Peggy and the light clicks off.

 _You’re being idiotic_ , the part of Peggy that remains sensible from _before_ the cat transformation says, even though part of her is perfectly content to stay sheltered down here. _This is Angie’s room._

Peggy sighs and peels herself from the floor. She slinks into the center of the room, eyeing Angie’s bed. It’ll be warm there, as well as safe and _not_ lonely. The thought of lurking around the dark house all night isn’t a comforting one, she acknowledges, and maybe that depressing idea is her motivation for springing a step forward and launching herself onto the bed.

To her surprise, Angie doesn’t startle at the movement, just opens her eyes. “English,” she whispers, groggy with sleep. “You have a tail.”

For a moment, Peggy wonders if Angie also kept scotch in the bathroom. It’s only when Peggy climbs over Angie, ignoring the protest made when she starts to settle onto a pillow that smells both sweet and sharp above Angie’s head, that she realizes that maybe Angie had seen it poking from under the bed .

“You’ll be cleaning that,” Angie tells her as she starts to settle in place. Peggy pauses, resisting the temptation to knead at the fabric. After a quiet deliberation in her head where rational Peggy says _You are a cat_ and irrational Peggy says _Angieangieangie,_ she steps off of the pillow. Rather than jump to the floor, however, she moves to curl up against Angie’s back.

Now she’s warm _and_ comfortable.

* * *

 

Apparently, Angie has something against window curtains, because Peggy wakes to the sensation of her fur warming to an unpleasant heat. When she irritably lifts her head, it’s to glare at the perfectly positioned morning sun.

In any other circumstances, the warmth might be pleasant, but the blankets have left her much too warm. As casually as she can, she slides out from under the comforter and moves to the pillow, where she’s still in the sun but not trapped between blankets. Angie shifts, just slightly, but doesn’t awaken.

She’s just about to fall back asleep, having discovered that her tail is actually useful as a pillow, when the shrill ring of a telephone breaks the morning quiet.

Peggy isn’t sure who’s more startled: Angie, who sits bolt upright and almost falls out of the bed, or Peggy, who ends up on the floor without being quite sure how she got there. As Angie gropes at her side table, Peggy scampers out of her room and into the hallway.

“That was Jarvis,” Angie says when she emerges some time later, her dress swishing around her ankles. “Apparently, Stark just went to bed without any results to show for his time.”

Peggy goes from hopeful to annoyed in the span of two sentences, and it takes a piece of Angie’s bacon for her to perk back up.

Of course, when Angie asks, “You’ll be fine without me, English?” she deflates once more. She’s forgotten about Angie’s audition, but rather than hiss and run away, Peggy just butts her head against her leg.

She’s getting pretty good at this cat thing, she thinks, even if that’s not exactly something she wants to be proud of.

“I”ll be back tonight,” Angie adds.

Once Angie’s gone and Peggy’s in the empty, empty house - she’s never noticed the way silence grows and echoes in the rooms - she has to content herself with shredding _The Power and the Glory._ After that book’s been thoroughly dismembered, she decides her next form of amusement can be _The Cannary._

* * *

Time passes in skips and beats without someone there to anchor her. Perhaps Peggy had been relying on Angie more than she realized, because after she blinks and finds herself running down the stairs, it’s apparent she may have a bit of a problem.

When she feels herself start to slip, she bites at her paw. The pain’s enough to keep her sharp, but it’s still hard to track how time progresses. She paces in irritation, trying to decide the best way to ground herself. Once again, her eyes land on the bookshelf.

For a while, she’s content just knocking things from the shelf. The first to go is a particularly hideous vase that Dum Dum had given her in Italy, all dark swirls and uneven glass, and after that she pushes off the matryoshka dolls in various states of undress that Jim and Gabe had thought hilarious to gift her. The nesting dolls didn’t break upon contact, but each part would hit the ground and skitter off in different directions.

She left alone the gifts from Rogers and Barnes, but Howard’s books continued to be fair game. It was with some particular satisfaction that she leapt to the ground after _For Whom The Bell Tolls_ and tore it apart one page at a time.

She’s never been particularly fond of Hemingway.

Every time she loses a beat of time, she finds herself startled into awareness. She paces around the apartment irritably, feeling penned in despite how large their rooms actually are. Peggy’s tempted to try venturing outside - surely it couldn’t be _too_ hard to get through a door or a window - but she’s not sure she trusts herself to make it back in a decent span of time. She resigns herself to pacing around, feeling slightly guilty for the mess Angie will walk home to, but incapable of actually doing anything about it. For a while, she tries to drag the papers into a pile. After her neck starts to ache, she stops and tries to find something nondestructive to occupy her.

Eventually, she settles down onto Angie’s pillow and tries to place the scent. The problem is it’s _Angie_ , which means she has a hard time finding words to describe her without sounding ridiculous while doing Angie justice. 

When Angie gets home before Peggy can settle on a proper description, she stops in the doorway, her cheerful greeting only making it halfway out of her mouth. For a moment, she just stares in shock.

“Well, Pegs,” she says slowly and at last. “I’ll see if Jarvis can’t watch you tomorrow.”

* * *

 

To her credit, Peggy tries sleeping on the couch that night. It’s more comfortable than the bed, but she still finds herself wandering. At last, she ends up curled against Angie.

“Couldn’t sleep either,” Angie murmurs, as Peggy nudges Angie’s hand. Her roommate starts some half-hearted attempt at petting, and it’s not until Peggy gently bites her hand that Angie actually gives her an almost decent scratch. She begins to speak, slurred and lazy from tiredness, and Peggy lets the sound of her voice wash over her and carry her to sleep.

* * *

Angie awakens first the next morning, and it’s the sound of what seems to be a showtune that rouses Peggy.

 _“I love what I’m doing, when I’m doing it for love. I know every bench in Central Park. If a-_ ow, damn it, ow, ow, _ow_ -”

Curious and more than slightly concerned, Peggy follows the sound of a loud clatter into the kitchen. She smells the burned toast before she sees Angie, and can’t help but halt when she sees the way her roommate’s dancing around the kitchen, shaking her hand and blowing on it.

“Morning, Pegs,” Angie tells her, voice sounding slightly strained. Peggy waits until she’s made her way to the opposite end of the kitchen, then leaps onto the counter. “I have second round of auditions today. Jarvis will be here in about an hour. He said he’s also bringing some food, since you probably’d like something besides just bacon and chicken.”

Peggy sits on the counter and lets Angie approach, accepting a stroke on her head, something she hopes will become a morning routine for as long as she’s stuck like this. Although she certainly doesn’t want it to last long, the feeling of Angie’s fingers trailing along her back is something she could grow used to in any form. It takes her a long moment, but Peggy thinks she can finally put a name to that Angie-scent that wraps around her.

She’s had epiphanies before, but this one hits her like a lightning bolt on a sunny day. This moment - Angie moving away to poke resentfully at her burned toast with a pinked finger - shouldn’t be anything special, not in the least because it’s about five in the morning on a Friday and Peggy’s currently a cat.

Angie slathers the toast with butter, dropping a piece of bacon in front of Peggy as she passes by, still humming some sort of showtune to herself. She’s twirling around the kitchen, probably working through some set in her head  and Angie’s so completely entangled in her burned toast and upcoming audition that it takes Peggy a moment to remember how to breathe which is _completely ridiculous._

Her roommate’s completely oblivious in a way that only Angie can be, running her voice through octaves that should be butchered right after a meal but _aren’t_ as she starts to clean the pan, suds wrapping over her hands and steam curling around her face. When Peggy approaches, Angie flickers her fingers at her, and the splash of water makes Peggy sneeze and dance away and Angie is amused and joyful, and she is also like like an early summer sunrise over the Mediterranean, fiery and fierce and oh. _Oh._

That’s her revelation, her epiphany right there.

“You okay, English?” Angie asks, looking concerned, and it’s then that Peggy realizes she’s been standing here on the counter with soap suds dripping off her nose, lowered to Steve Rogers levels of romantic paralyzation.

Peggy’s not sure if she’s okay. She just stares at Angie for a moment, that damnable tail thrashing through the air behind her, and then leaps off the counter and flees.

It’s not a mature reaction, it’s not anywhere near the level of professionalism which Peggy typically prides herself upon maintaining, but she thinks that Angie can forgive her for the reaction. She’s not sure, but she entirely hopes so.

In fact, there’s only two things Peggy’s currently certain about.

One, she’s in love with Angela Martinelli.

Two, she’s still a cat.

* * *

Angie’s long gone by the time Jarvis enters the apartment. Peggy can’t help but sulk about being alone, but luckily she’s still reeling over the shock of her earlier realization and that is more than enough to keep her focused.

When Jarvis enters the apartment, Peggy can’t help but bolt from her hiding place, tangling around his legs and making noises that, any other morning, would leave her embarrassed.

“Good morning,” Jarvis says, then frowns at her. “You appear to be in some distress.”

He’s stating the obvious and she wants to bite him but right now he’s her only source of companionship, so she doesn’t. It’s a good exercise of impulse control in theory, but she’s practically vibrating with tension by the time he picks her up.

Perhaps she’s being clingy, but she follows him through the still-messy apartment, leaving him to trip over her when he tries to turn and she’s in his way.

“Agent Carter,” he says at last. “What is the matter?”

She can’t tell him and he _knows_ this but he still crosses his arms in front of him and glares down at her as though Peggy should be able to verbalize a reply. She avoids his eyes, settling for biting his shoe.

To her surprise, Jarvis simply gives a lofty sigh and picks her up. “I have some errands to run for Mr. Stark,” he says at last, scratching below her chin. He doesn’t do it as well as Angie, but he’s tolerable. “You are welcome to accompany me.”

Peggy can’t help but purr, just a little, at that. Jarvis chuckles and doesn’t put her down until they reach the car, setting her gently onto the front seat. Peggy settles in place, basking in the feeling of warm leather against her body.

Jarvis’ errands would be monotonous on any other day - he drops off a pile of laundry, gives Howard’s last femme du jour regrets with an “alas, Mr. Stark is not ready to continue a relationship at this time”, and gets yelled at by several political figures in regards to a weapons deal that Howard’s apparently been dragging his heels about for several weeks. At one point, when a man threatens Jarvis’ wife, Peggy strolls up and sinks her claws into his left ankle.

Jarvis actually laughs once he’s out of earshot. “I should bring you on excursions more often,” he says. “You are just as charming a feline as you are a woman.”

She turns up her nose at that, returning to the car and waiting for him to open the door. He actually laughs again, looking far more relaxed than she’s used to seeing.

They pass the rest of the day in a blur, and Peggy’s relieved that she doesn’t lose any time whatsoever as he prattles on about Anna’s latest tea blend and complains about bagged tea. Peggy attempts to look attentive, but when she falls asleep in the middle of Jarvis having a heated debate over the importance of water boiling time vs steeping time, he doesn’t seem too perturbed.

* * *

 

“Hello, Peggy,” Howard says when she and Jarvis appear at his front door. “You’re looking... “

Peggy, dripping with mud over Jarvis’ _last_ stop glares at him. It’s entirely Howard’s fault, after all, that they’d ended up chased into a small pond by one of his now ex-paramour’s precious dogs. Peggy, who had always fancied herself as favoring dogs rather than cats, has started to reevaluate her stance after this latest experience.

“...catly,” Howard completes. When she enters his manor, Peggy makes sure that the first place she sits is on one of his very, very fancy old Spanish carpets. The mud makes a delightful squelch when she rolls over and rubs her back against the fabric.

Looking as though he’d been sucking on a particularly sour lemon, Howard says, “As always, I am delighted that you’re here.”

She rolls to her feet, sitting back and curling her tail around her paws. As the agent drags the tail over the carpet, it leaves a long streak of mud behind.

Howard winces, “I haven’t made much progress since you were last here, but the samples I’ve been working with from the other day indicate that it’s quite possible that your transformation may undo, given time. How much time, I haven’t been able to determine but-”

With a sigh, she sinks back to the ground. That leaves her exactly where she’d been since this whole mess started. Howard, bless the man, falls silent. “I’ll keep working,” he says, looking fairly miserable.

Peggy wants to continue resenting him, but simply stands up. She stretches slowly, first her back legs than her front, feeling her back flex as she does so. Ambling carefully and ignoring the trail of muddy pawprints, Peggy brushes by his leg. Howard, surprised, stares at her.

 _Thank you,_ she wishes she could say, hoping her body language will indicate such to Howard. He smiles, looking tired.  

Even if this whole cat business had been terrible timing for her love life - or unfortunately lack thereof - she won’t be able to resent Howard forever, and frankly, doesn’t want to.

Waiting in Howard’s lab proves boring when he’s not actively exploding things or interacting with her. Although he continues to tinker with the machine he’d been working with two days prior, it bears little fruit by the end of the day.

When Jarvis arrives, laden down with tea and a late afternoon snack, Peggy can’t help but stare wistfully at the drink.

Jarvis gives her an indulging smile. “Once you return to your usual state,” he promises, “I’ll be sure to have a cup waiting for you.”

Several more hours blur together, and Peggy tries and fails to look interested in whatever science Howard is attempting to do. Whatever it is, it involves a fair amount of explosions. She’s not certain that explosions are entirely relevant to her own immediate interests, but at the very least, they give her some short moments of entertainment.

The rest of the day passes, slow and steady as it trickles on to its inevitable conclusion.

* * *

 

One day passes. Then another and another.  Seventy-two hours of mind numbing boredom turns into a week where Peggy loses gaps of memory and tries not to seethe over her situation.

Peggy slowly dies of boredom the entire time.

It’s not _all_ bad, of course.  There’s time spent sitting in Angie’s lap, which has suddenly become rather awkward in the aftermath of the Revelation. Yes, capitalization and all. No, she’s not being dramatic.

Anyway, it’s not all bad. There’s the lapsitting, then the nights where Angie goes to bed and Peggy follows her, curling up on her stomach or resting a head on Angie’s arm until the morning light wakes them. Angie’s taken to embracing her captive audience, reciting lines and going through her musical numbers. At times, she’ll put Peggy on the ground and tell her where to stand, before going through what’s obviously a hard practiced staging.

One evening passes where Peggy drapes herself over Angie’s shoulders and refuses to move, listening to Angie recite Hemingway aloud. Peggy hates Hemingway, but loves the sound of Angie’s voice as she dips into dramatizations. At one point, once Angie’s fallen silent and Peggy’s dozed off, she awakens to the vibration of Angie’s shoulders.

“Sorry, English,” Angie says, then reads aloud, “ _No animal has more liberty than the cat, but it buries the mess it makes. The cat is the best anarchist._ ”

Peggy growls, mostly playfully, and is startled into silence when Angie kisses the top of her head. “I’m only joking,” Angie reassures her. “Mostly.”

She really hates Hemingway, truly she does, but the way Angie reads it makes it sound like love poetry rather than war and death and ambushes.

 _“But in the meantime all the life you have or ever will is today, tonight, tomorrow, today, tonight, tomorrow, over and over again I hope,”_ Angie reads one night, and Peggy can’t help but move a little closer.

One day, Thompson calls. Angie listens silently to the phone for a full minute, then finally says, “You’re that rude fellow that made me cry, aren’t you? No, I haven’t seen Peggy and I certainly will not tell you when I see her next” before slamming the phone into its cradle once more.

Angie pours her a little gravy with the nightly snack of chicken, and says, “I don’t know how you _stand_ that man, Pegs,” and Peggy wishes she could tell her exactly how she copes with Jack Thompson.

* * *

 One morning, Angie leaves a window open - just a crack, but enough that Peggy can headbutt it and slither her way out. At first, the scents and sounds are overwhelming - too many cars and people and general bustle. New York's always seemed busy, but never overwhelmingly so. This, however, is completely different. 

It doesn't take long for her to become lost - just a quick leap over a trashcan, then over a fence and then a slither through a pile of cardboard boxes. A quick trot takes her past a man selling the paper, and then the familiar streets become a confusing blur. 

Peggy follows her route to work, stopping just outside the building. She's not certain what she expected - someone to notice her? Some hint of recognition?

Nothing. Sousa brushes by her, his gaze not even straying to her as he goes by. Peggy heaves a sigh, turning on one paw to examine the street. It takes some winding and some creative backtracking - one man, when she tries to approach the subway, shoos her a way and she scampers off. She wanders until her feet are dead, dragging her tail low behind her until the plume is dusty and covered in street filth.

It's a surprisingly long walk back to their apartment. She curls up on the couch, heaving a sigh and falling asleep until Angie tiptoes in. 

* * *

 There’s one evening when Howard calls their apartment just minutes before Jarvis arrives, and without a single explanation, Peggy finds herself ushered into the car. Angie waves her a goodbye, looking surprisingly sad as she meets Peggy’s eyes.

“I fixed it, I _fixed it,_ ” Howard says the minute Jarvis opens the car door to let her out, and Peggy is picked up and whirled in a dizzying circle. She squirms free, hitting the ground with a thud and fleeing out of sight. “Meet me in the lab!” Howard cries.

Peggy’s there long before he is, and she shifts impatiently as she stands in a chalked circle on the floor. Howard cranks up the machine with a wide smile, there’s a bright flash of light, and when it clears, Peggy’s still crouched on the ground, fur bristling and claws flexing.

Howard almost _cried_ with disappointment, looking like a weedy academic whose favorite science textbook had been snatched away rather than the suave, self-centered billionaire she was used to seeing. Peggy reaches up, her paws resting on his thigh, and butts his hand.

“We’ll fix it, Pegs,” he promises. “It should have worked, I don’t know why it _didn’t._ I’ll fix it, I’ll get it fixed.”

She exchanges a concerned look with Jarvis, tail and whiskers both curling. Peggy tries to purr, and Howard picks her up. Up close, dark rings edge his eyes, and his hands shake - either too much coffee, or too much alcohol, she’d imagine.

 _I believe you,_ she thinks, until she’s had enough of the affection and squirms to the ground.

Jarvis takes her back in silence, looking just as exhausted as Howard. When she’s back to normal, the very first thing she’ll do is scold the two of them for not properly caring for themselves.

Angie looks surprised, and maybe a little relieved when they return. The first thing she does is pick Peggy up, the second is give her a lovely scratch on the head, and the third is quietly tell Jarvis, “I’ll look after her.” 

“I believe Agent Carter will be well taken care of in your hands,” Jarvis says solemnly.

Peggy purrs as Angie carries her into the bedroom and they settle in place. _For Whom the Bell Tolls_ lay, spine cracked from where it had been tossed on the covers. Once Peggy’s secure and comfortable on Angie’s chest, their nightly reading resumes.

At one point, when Peggy’s drowsing on an torturous wave of Ernest Hemingway’s novel, overpopulated with _thee’s_ and _thou’s_ , Angie pauses and says. “I’m going to miss this, Pegs.” Her fingers trace a beat along Peggy’s fur, but it doesn’t sound as though the words are meant for her.

She falls asleep between Angie’s chest and arm, the scent of peach tea and summer sun tickling her nose and the sound of the Italian front echoing in her ears.

* * *

 

She’s not quite sure what wakes her, at first. It’s still dark and the apartment’s still quiet, which means there’s almost no reason for her to go from a dull, dead sleep to bright alertness.

No reason, except for that fact that when she stretches, it’s fingers she finds rather than toes toenails rather than claws, and finally, thank God, the damnable tail is gone.

She’s warm and still drowsy, despite her sudden awakening, and her first thought is _thank you, Howard._

“Peggy?” Angie mutters sleepily, and she freezes immediately and tries to extract herself without awakening her bedmate.

She goes from thanking Howard to cursing him a moment, because this is _exactly_ what she should have expected. This is entirely, precisely what she should have expected after the initial episode where she was turned into a cat.

“Angie, darling,” she says, keeping her voice as steady as possible. “I need to get up.”

“S’too early,” Angie mumbles, and then she opens her eyes. “I thought you were a cat,” she says, sounding sleepy.

“I was, and now I’m not,” the awkward phrasing makes Peggy wince almost as much as the thought of mentioning the Revelation to Angie. Angie pulls away a little, and Peggy can’t help but widen the distance.

“That’s unfortunate,” Angie says through a yawn. “I liked you as a cat. Not that I don’t like you as a human, but cats are… snuggly.”

Try as she might, Peggy can’t remember Angie drinking last night. She disentangles herself with some difficulty, trying to work out how their legs had managed to twine together. She’s still covered in the clothes she’d been wearing just the other day, thankfully, but Angie is in nothing more than a sheer slip.

“I’m quite glad to hear that,” Peggy replies slowly. “I wouldn’t mind getting a cat, but I do need to get up."

“Angie,” Peggy says, pulling away further and sitting upright in bed. Angie seems to sense the urgency, the seriousness in her tone, because she moves so that she’s propped upright on a sole elbow. She yawns again, holding up a finger in front of Peggy. “While I was... indisposed, I realized something.”

Angie raises an eyebrow, managing to look sleepy and skeptical simultaneously. She gestures her free hand, her _keep going, English_ obvious.

“In between your practice runs and your terrible Hemingway recitations-”

“You got something against Hemingway, Carter?” Angie challenges, then falls silent when Peggy casts her a halfhearted glare.

“As I was saying, in the midst of all the Hemingway readings - which, despite the fact it was Ernest Hemingway, managed to be quite lovely - I was hit with a rather surprising conclusion and-”

“It’s three in the morning,” Angie says flatly. “You can spit it out.”

Peggy hesitates, shrugs her shoulders just slightly. “I thought you may appreciate a Hemingway quote, but… quite frankly, I couldn't bring myself to find one. I don't know how to say it, but-"

“I don't need poetry, English. Not even if this is some declaration of your new found feelings for me," Angie interrupt with a quick smile, raiding an eyebrow and, when Peggy gives a frustrated sigh, laughs.

Peggy meets the shadow of her eyes in the dark room, wishing, just briefly, that her eyes could adjust to the dark as well as a cat's. “Angie, I- well, quite frankly, it was meant to be one.”

“I _know_ , English. It's about time that you caught up. Now that you’re no longer a cat, shut up and kiss me.”

Peggy can’t help but laugh, and when she leans forward, Angie tastes like Mediterranean sunshine and peach tea.

 

**Author's Note:**

> As a reminder, KayQy did some gorgeous art for this fic that can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5117405


End file.
